Well. I promise I’m not exaggerating when I say that within the first 30 seconds the Girl told the Boy to shuttup, in the snottiest tone possible. Clark GASPED. Then he goes, “MAMA. She said shut up!” We had a little talk about how that’s not a nice word and I just walked away. Yes, I could have shut it off, but that would have resulted in hysterics I was not feeling like enduring.

Later that night, out of nowhere, Clark tells me, “I said shuttup at preschool.”

Awesome.

Me: “Oh no, Clarkie. That’s not a nice word. Who did you say it to?”*

Clark: “…”

Me: “Did Teacher Jill have anything to say about it?”

Clark: “…”

GAH. Toddlers. AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?? FOR FECKS SAKE.

* I’m fairly certain, “To whom did you say it” would have yielded similar results.

I came across these clothes in bag I was using for summer adventures and it occurred to me all of a sudden that I don’t carry around an extra set of clothes for the boy anymore. I was just doing that, what, three weeks ago? And also, these pants are too small now. The boy. He grows.

A couple of days ago, I ran the trails at Pt. Defiance for the first time ever by myself. I’ve never done it before, not because I was afraid I would be attacked or anything like that, but because I was afraid of getting lost. And not like, lost forever lost, but like, “Oh no! I have come out of this trail and I can see this is the road, I guess I’ll just run back to the car” and end up having to run 5 extra miles because I don’t realize I am 200 yards from my car in the other direction. But the trails are marked and I just finally sucked it up and did it and it was awesome and I am so proud of myself.

And just because, if we are bookface friends, you know I’ve been blathering about mah new iphone, but check out this picture I took last night WITH MY PHONE:

yes i love technology…alwayth and forevrrrr…

You need to know two things for this story to make sense. Firstly, you remember we live across the street from an elementary school? We have big front windows, and observing the goings-on over there is one of Clark’s favorite things. Second, my boy is OBSESSED with emergency response vehicles. Mainly fire engines, but pretty much any siren in the vicinity of our house goes down like this:

faintest wail

abrupt silence, as crazy monkey screeching and clanging about comes to a halt

siren confirmed

DROP EVERYTHING AND RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN TO THE FRONT WINDOWS

intent observation

thorough report on type, color, and possible destination of said flashy vehicle

SO. I was putting Clark down for his nap. I was laying there with him, as I do, and JUST when I thought he might be asleep, at least TWENTY sirens went by from all directions, one happening like every 10 seconds.

And he stayed asleep. I could NOT believe it. I was also wondering WTF was going on. I was finally able to slip out about 10 minutes later and the first thing I realized was that I could SMELL SMOKE. I headed towards the front windows, thinking, Wow, that fire must be close. And then I got there and dudes, THE SCHOOL WAS ON FIRE.

And there were seriously:

6 fire engines
4 police cars
3 school security cars
4 miscellaneous fire/EMT type vehicles

And FIREMEN ON THE ROOF. And big water squirting. And news helicopters.

Clark slept through it all.

THE END.

*******************
There doesn’t seem to be much damage to the school, and no one was there because the teachers are on strike. Just in case you were wondering.

You know the place. It’s a “children’s indoor inflatable private party franchise.” We got a Groupon a while ago and SB took Clark a bunch, but I’d never been there until Clark’s friend Maia’s birthday party a couple of months ago.

Right away, of course, you’re assaulted by the bad lighting, too-loud music, and the smell of plastic and feet. But hey, it’s fun, right?! Suck it up, you tell yourself.

So, I bounced a bit, enjoying that my boy was having a good time, and followed him everywhere he went. It was all well and good until he disappeared through a hole into a bigass inflatable-tube-maze-slide thing. I’m NOT going in there, I thought, as I walked around the outside looking for a viewing screen of some sort, but there wasn’t one. I started to freak out a bit that I couldn’t see him, and since the music was so loud, I couldn’t hear him if he needed help. I looked around for SB and found him too far away to hear me, engaged in some sort of Nerdery with Jake. Fuck. I had no choice but to dive in.

I wouldn’t say I’m claustrophobic. I like small cozy spaces. Its more of a being trapped thing. It was super squeezy and tight in there, the music was SO LOUD, other kids were rushing past, and you HAVE to go forward. You can’t go backwards against the stream of kids, because it’s too small to pass each other. (Am I making this sound horrifying enough? I can’t tell.) I came across Clark in the second little chamber, happy as a clam, but I really wanted to GET OUT. So I encouraged him to hurry by chasing him, and this was working splendidly, until we came to this super steep wall that you had to climb over. It was almost entirely vertical with saggy, collapsed foot holds. There was a mom and two kids stuck there trying to get over. I wanted to shove them out of the way, as they didn’t seem to find the kiddie toy quite as horrifying as I did, but I restrained myself. I saw another hole and decided there had to be another way out and pulled Clarkie though. But it turned out to be another entrance to get to the wall and the slide and now I was squeezing past against the stream of humanity, but finally we were OUT.

SB was waiting for us. Clark scampered back over to the entrance to do it again. I informed SB perhaps a tad shrill-ly and with a bit of the crazy-eye that he would need to accompany him this time.

So after Clark asked every day to go back (out of nowhere from the back seat, breaking the silence, “I wanna go to Pump It Up, Mama. I wanna jump.”) I finally took him today. We were having a great time. (I mean on the outside) I was proud of myself for running all around and jumping and being silly, even though the lighting was still awful, the music still too loud, and OMG the seam burns! If all of that weren’t bad enough, you get these weird, rubbery, OUCHIE rug burns on some of the slides. Gross.

But then half way through, they had us switch rooms and OHGODNO we were back in the room with the stupid maze. I kept him busy with the other attractions as long as I could, but inevitably he dove right in. And I had to follow him. Again.

This time I took video:

Awful, right? Please back me up here.

As the title implies, I will be patiently awaiting my Mother of the Month award.

So. Firstly, let me say that he was GREAT on the flight to NYC. It was a dream, actually. He slept for the first half and was lovely company for the second, completely pleasant and entertained by his books and snacks. Then, for our whole trip in NYC, he was such a fun little companion. He seemed to grow up over the week before our eyes, constantly delighting us with funny observations and surprising us with his portability.

And then.

We had to leave on our lengthy journey RIGHT at nap time, so it was dicey to start with. He was OK in the cab to Penn Station, except of course he pooped. So when we got there, we had approximately 10 minutes for one of us to wrangle all of the luggage, buy tickets, and figure out where we were going, and the other to find a bathroom and change a diaper. I drew the poopy straw, so while I was pleased to learn that the bathroom in Penn Station was the ONLY bathroom I encountered in all of New York City with a changing station, I was dismayed to remember that SB had the diaper stuff in HIS carryon. I managed to find a diaper, at least, in mine, and made do with wet toilet paper. Yuck. But we made it on to the train. The Friday afternoon, packed to the gills train, where we could not sit together and poor SB had to manage the suitcases in the crowd. I pulled out all my best stops to keep Clark entertained and managed to keep him to a mostly manageable level of screeching and wiggling.

Then on to another train, through the waiting and checking in, an epic juice-surrendering security tantrum, to the gate, and then we took turns chasing him around the crowded gate area as he got more and more punchy and SB and I began to lose our composure a little.

As we were finally waiting in line to get on the plane, his eyelids were fluttering a little and I thought YES! He is totally going to fall asleep as soon as we sit down.

But of course, the airplane was exciting, so he didn’t. For the next two hours, he continued to get more and more AND MORE rowdy. Like, jumping up and down on the seat, kicking the one in front of him, yelling and just being a crazycrazy child, like nothing I’ve ever seen him do before. It was like he was manic. Like, happy, yell-y screechy manic. I did NOT know what to do. Even in retrospect, I don’t know what I should have done.

I tried every thing I could. Distraction, food, whatever.

As you can imagine, if our patience and composure were slipping hours before this, we were both on the verge of collapse at this point. Our extreme embarrassment and the obvious frustration of everyone around us was not helping, either. About 2 hours in, the attendants finally brought my pathetic little snack tray and some much needed wine, all I wanted was my sad little salamis and stale crackers in peace, and that was when he actually dialed it up a little more. I turned to SB, and was like, what are we supposed to do? I even said, I feel like we should video tape this or something, because no one is going to believe us. And that’s when he started throwing things. He would shout THROW and bam! Hard cover Thomas book to the face, precious drops of wine spilling into my lap. I removed everything he could throw, and then he started hitting me. Hard.

I lost it a little. I grabbed his leg roughly and made my face and voice scary and said STOP IT.

He laughed. He would not stop. He was out of control.

And that’s when SB said, I can’t have him hitting you, and grabbed him and physically restrained him. And Clark started screaming even more. SB put his hand over Clark’s mouth and was doing everything he could to try to get him to stop.

I accepted this was not going to work either, took him back into my lap and that’s when he BARFED ALL OVER ME.

Right into my face.

I had barf on my cheek and my neck.

All over my shirt. Chunks in my bra.

And now my poor baby was sobbing and having trouble catching his breath.

The three of us walked back 20 rows to the bathroom and all I saw were disgusted faces, so I kept my gaze focused ahead.

When we got inside and shut the door I finally really lost it and started sobbing, too.

After a little while and some deep breaths, we both stopped crying and SB washed the chunks out of my bra. He went back and got Clark’s sweatshirt and my thin, see-through, no-buttons, sweater-cape-thing and we got as dressed as we could. For the rest of the flight and all through the airport after, I was wearing a wet bra and a few flimsy threads and there was nothing else to be done. We got back to our seats, I looked at my watch and realized that we were not even half way through the flight. There were still another 3 hours to go. Mercifully, Clark finally fell asleep.

But wait! There’s more!

Around midnight, when we had about a half an hour to go, (which still seemed like a million years on The Longest Flight Ever), SB misinterpreted something I said, took it as a poke, lashed out in return, and then in our extremely weakened mental states, now we were in a fight. I may or may not have whisper-hissed the following winners:

“I am not wearing a shirt and I have barf in my hair. I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU ARE PICKING ON ME RIGHT NOW.”

“You could take a SHIT in the middle of my CHEST and I would STILL cut you some slack at this point!”

Yeah. It was just so so so awful. I’m sure everyone around us thought we were terrible parents and felt sorry for Clark. I could JUST. DIE.

So. There you have it. My friend Heather is about to travel by herself for 20 hours or something like that with three children, so maybe I should just shut my hole, but at least all three of them are GIRLS.

on the way there, my perfect angel.

You can do it, Clarkie. Just let go if you’re all done.

(So pleased with himself.)

Again! Again!

The cardigan is such a fashion essential. Takes the chill off! Tones down loud print blouses! Adds a little contour to tent-y tops! Dials down the boob factor!

It seems I am always on the search for a cardy that does not suck. Why must they all be too thin or flimsy? Why must they all get ball-y, or only last through a few washes? I got two of these from Land’s End Canvas for Christmas:

And they were OK, but here it is April and they are already misshapen and ball-y.

All right, thought I, a $40 cardigan is not quality enough, I’ll bite the freaking bullet and pay even more for this one from jcrew:

Well, it arrived yesterday and it is CRAP. I’m so annoyed. It does NOT seem at all like a quality item. If you took the tag out, I would be sure it was $12.99 from Target. Aside from being poor quality it is SO MADDENINGLY TINY. I ordered a large and it has no hope of buttoning and even the arms are too short! This is not a new complaint, but COME ON. It’s so hard to know when you’re supposed to order a double XL or a medium, for fecks sake.

I know what you’re going to say. Just accept the fact that you have to pay the big bucks and go cashmere, but even that is no guarantee. My last cashmere sweater got super ball-y in like 4 wears. On the other hand, I’ve had cashmere you can wear everyday for a year (oh black cardy, how I wore and wore and wore you) and it still looks new.

So, internet, I ask you, do you have a good cardy you like, and where did you get it? Failing that, what sort of fabric mix is the right one? That mustard one in the Flat Stanley post is holding up well. I got it on the clearance rack at Macy’s about a year ago. It is 40% Viscose/35% silk/25% nylon. Quite the soup.

After that fascinating topic, I need to throw in some cuteness. Here are some more cute things Clark has said lately:

SB, after complimenting my morning organizational ass-kickery: Clark, can you say, “My Mom’s Awesome?”

Clark: No! I don’t want to say it.

SB: Oh, come on! Say, “My Mom’s Awesome!”

Clark: She’s not!

Me: hmphing. noting this transgression.

SB: Can you say, “My Dad’s awesome?”

Clark: No!

SB: Can you say, “My Papa’s Awesome?”

Clark: MY PAPA’S AWESOME! MY NANNY’S AWESOME!

Typical. What a stinker. Then this, last night. He wanted to watch Thomas, I cast about for something better than TV as uzsh, and remembered that I had set aside a catalog that had come in the mail a few days prior. Have I mentioned that Clark loves catalogs? He even says, “I love catalogs.”

Clark: I want to watch Misty Island Rescues.

Me: Ooh! Clarkie! I have something for you!

Clark: What do you have for me?

Me: I have a toy catalog.

Clark: Yay! Yay! Yay! I’M SO EXCITED!

And then we looked at it together, all snuggly in my chair for at least an hour.

Oh that boy! I can’t believe how big he’s getting. I’m really cherishing each time he lets me hold him and rock him, because one of these days he’ll tell me to just lay on his couch, like he does to his dad and granny.

The whole ordeal was DEFINITELY harder for me than it was for him. I don’t think the narrative itself is that interesting, and I’m doing my best to block out the whole experience, but here a few of the pictures in my mind:

- His tiny shoulders slipping out of his baby hospital gown tied as tight as it could go. HOSPITAL GOWN, people. My mom was surprised that I didn’t take a picture since I photograph everything, but um, no. Don’t wanna see that again.

- “I want some juice.” “I want some juice.” “I want some juice.” “I want some juice, Mama.” “I want some juice.” “Mama, I want some juice.” And not being able to give him any.

- The way he was holding onto me so uncharacteristically close and tight, even though he didn’t seem that bothered by anything.

- When a nurse brought us a warmed blanket and I wasn’t sure he would like it, but I wrapped him up in it anyway like a baby and he sat with me all still. He seemed so so small.

- Watching him disappear through swinging OR doors with a stranger.

- Losing it.

But then before we knew it, he came out and I nearly tackled the nurse to grab my boy, throwing the load of bags and coats and blankets I was holding in SB’s general direction. Guys, he had BLOODY TEARS all day. (Yes, just like a vampire!) But he’s all better now, and strangely, he’s not even talking about it. He is still narrating each detail of the Great Rock Bonk of Autumn 2010, but doesn’t seem interested at all in recounting the events of Tuesday.

Bonus, unrelated, funny things he has said to me today.

- I loaded him into the car, and he asked, “Where are we going?” and I told him we were going to PapaNanny’s. But then I took a different turn because I had to get gas, and he shouts, “Where are you taking me?” Really, two year old? You not only notice I’m driving a different route, but demand to know about the change in itinerary?

- This one is not really that funny, I just can’t believe that he is actually communicating like a real person, not just repeating all of his knowns, you know? So, this morning I was sitting with him on the couch and I started vigorously scratching my leg, (as I do, I am a bigtime scar-causing scratcher/picker), and he goes, “Stop scratching yourself!” Again, really, two year old? Stop bossing me around!

One of my new year’s resolutions was to expose Clark to more live music. But I’ve found that most music takes place after bedtime. You can find things on the weekends, but they’re almost always during his nap. It’s been harder than I thought to find stuff I can take him to. But then I remembered the Mandolin Cafe!

They have live music most nights of the week from 6:30-8:30! Which is PERFECT. We’ve been picking Clark up from my parent’s house and heading straight over there for dinner and entertainment. Clark will say, “I wanna have a date. See some music.” It’s the best thing ever. The timing is just right for those nights when the last couple of hours before bedtime seem long and tantrum-filled.

“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” – William Congreve

Anywho, we have a house full of guests for the next few days and there should be much eating and imbibing and entertaining ahead. (and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, as we have given up our bed, and Clark is sleeping with us HOLD ME) We’re even going to Ride The Duck on Saturday, which I have secretly always wanted to do. And now I have the excuse of out-of-towners and a toddler upon whom to blame my presence aboard the most cheesy of Seattle activities. Score!

In other news, friends of the real life persuasion will recall that my dear, sweet, perfect, boy is almost always goopy eyed. Since he was about a week old, his eyes have been producing a non-stop flow of poost and tears. I wipe them constantly, but he is often grimy looking anyway. I almost don’t even see it anymore, until someone comments on it, and then I feel embarrassed for him, and for me, and imagine the judgment in these statements, which may or may not be there. I think most people wonder why we don’t DO SOMETHING about it it. Our hippie pediatrician, who was chosen for her non-interventionist style, has counseled all along that we should be massaging his ducts regularly and that he would most likely grow out of it. She told us early on that if we were not happy with this plan, he could have surgery to correct it. Yeesh. I suppose there are some who would not have any problem with that, but we have been more comfortable just wiping his face and hoping he would indeed grow out of it. Surgery? SURGERY? For my baby? I’m getting all tear-y right now just thinking about it. But the time has come. We took him to an ophthalmologist yesterday and his surgery to unblock his tear ducts is scheduled for the 29th. Again, there are much bigger problems in the world, but putting my baby under, having him cut into, having him awake in pain and confusion, gaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh. I think I’d rather deal with eye schmuck.

In other surgical updates, I just used a thumb tack to dig the last of the slivers out of my hand from last weekend. Ah, workplace surgery. So hygienic.